


Safehouse VIII

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Series: Safehouse [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel/Dean Winchester UST, Crowley is a great translator, Destiel - Freeform, Drowstiel, Emotionally Repressed Dean, Established Relationship, Grace Kink, Grace Sex, Grace-Powered Orgasms, M/M, Masochism, Multi, Oral Sex, Size Queen Crowley, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, broken ust, crowstiel, look at their fucking love connection, masochist crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 06:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11053158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: Castiel wants Dean. Dean wants Castiel. Crowley cannot deny Cas anything at all that he wants (and is rather eager to revisit his favourite former hook up).Threesome ensues.





	Safehouse VIII

There’s a knock, and Castiel knows before Crowley opens the door that Dean will be on the other side of it. There's a reason behind everything Crowley does, and so it stands to reason that he intended for the two of them to already be inside the hotel room when Dean arrives. Perhaps he means it to unsettle Dean. Castiel can feel, through the connection formed by the grace he has left in Crowley, that Crowley is himself unsettled at the prospect of this liaison. That he mistrusts it almost as much as he wants it.  
  
They’ve been waiting together in this white room for some time, face to face in the fading sunlight, quiet – beyond the need for words. And because Castiel can sense Crowley’s tension, and because Crowley is a human animal, still, on certain levels, and responds to physical reassurance, Castiel has cupped a hand on the back of Crowley’s neck, and the foreheads of their vessels are resting together. Castiel can feel the demon licking at the surface like the flames of a low fire, trying to taste him through the barrier of flesh and bone between them. It is calm. Peaceful. When Crowley lifts a hand to will the door open from across the room, they do not move apart from each other.  
  
Castiel hears him before he sees him. "I'd say 'get a room' but hey, check it out - you already got one." Dean's aura chimes, out of synch with Crowley's but equally unsettled. "Looks like I'm interrupting." His voice is laden with sarcasm that even Castiel can't miss. "You want me to come back some other time?"  
  
"I think that's rather up to Cas." Crowley's essence is complicated right now. Still underpinned with unease, but shot through with that particular flavour of sardonic amusement that's so uniquely him that Castiel would sense it across millennia. "Angel?"  
  
Castiel reluctantly pulls back, and a thousand invisible tendrils of angel and demon untangle from each other. It is beyond Dean's comprehension, Castiel knows. It isn't his fault. This is what Castiel hopes will be helped by this experience - Dean's understanding of Castiel's relationship with Crowley. "Of course you're welcome here, Dean," he says. "Please don't doubt it."  
  
Crowley tilts his head, his vessel's sly hazel eyes half-lidded. "See, Squirrel. Didn't I tell you? He wants you. Here."  
  
"Yeah, you did." Dean still seems to doubt it, looking sceptically from Castiel to Crowley and back again, so Castiel uses the hand still on the back of Crowley’s neck to push him gently towards Dean. Castiel has always been awkward with social niceties. Perhaps especially with Dean. There is so much between them, so much they don't allow themselves to say and be to each other.  
  
Crowley's predatory saunter is familiar, and here, in this room, it's déjà vu. Perhaps Dean steps back only on instinct: that innate distrust of hunter for demon; even this demon with whom, Castiel knows, he once so frequently shared a bed. Crowley stops, hands in pockets, rocking on his heels. Looking up at Dean with an air of what seems to be curiosity. "No need to be coy, now, cowboy. Not with me." He glances back at Castiel. "Not with Cassie. He's quite aware of our... history."  
  
Castiel knows that Dean would deny blushing. But Castiel is an angel - able to see the individual blossoming of oxygenated blood into each capillary at the skin's surface. "I thought you didn't kiss and tell?" he says, and he acts like he's joking but his tone is defensive enough that Castiel feels obliged to speak up on Crowley's behalf.  
  
"It's involuntary. He's incapable of hiding it from me."  
  
Crowley glances between them again, one eyebrow cocked and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'll tell you a secret." He lowers his voice to a stage-whisper, "it's not the only thing that's involuntary around Feathers here."  
  
Dean looks torn, between turning and running, or landing a punch. Castiel can't stop himself rolling his eyes: a usefully eloquent gesture, he's learned. Crowley chuckles, low and rich, and Dean's aura shivers with conflicted emotion.  
  
"Be nice," Castiel warns. He's not sure which of them he's speaking to.  
  
Dean huffs, rolling his shoulders a little. "I'm always nice," he grumbles.  
  
"I remember how nice. A regular _peach_. Remind me?" Crowley crooks a finger, beckons, and Dean flinches, licking his lips and glancing wildly at Castiel.  
  
"Wait, just like - just, here?"  
  
Crowley raises his eyebrows, incredulous. "Well, duh. I have to say, you never struck me as this Puritan when you were flaunting it with every cocktail waitress this side of Vegas. Cas doesn't mind. Trust me, he likes to watch."  
  
Dean's uncertainty makes Castiel wish he could reach out and reassure him as easily as he can with Crowley - stroking the connection between them until it shivers. "Do you not like this room?" he queries. "Would you prefer a different hotel?"  
  
Dean shrugs, and seems unable to look him in the eye. It's strange. Disconcerting. "This is fine, I guess."  
  
"Well then." That silky purr. "What are we tiptoeing around one another for? Keys in the dish, darling. Let's have some grown-up fun."  
  
That gets a rise. Hackles up. Crowley feels - looks - like he's barely restraining laughter as Dean squares up to him, and Dean's aura is... Castiel feels it, the heady swim of righteous outrage and desire and thwarted possessiveness. "You're all kinds of messed up, you know that, Crowley? And that's fine, that's fine for you and maybe it's OK for me, but you don't get to drag him into your gutter too."  
Crowley actually laughs, then. When Dean goes to take a swing at him his arm stills, midair, punching a frustrated grunt from him as his own punch is magically pulled.  
"Temper, mate." Crowley's voice is mocking, but Castiel can feel it: the undercurrent of honest... pity? _Sympathy?_  
  
"Dean," Castiel says, quietly but full of reproach. It's a tone he's become well practiced in, over time. "I won't let you harm Crowley without his consent."  
  
"His _consent?_ " The glance that Dean casts him is pleading. It tugs at somewhere deep inside Castiel and suddenly he wonders why this had ever seemed such a good idea. He'd _wanted_. And Crowley had made it seem so simple, so achievable. He'd gone to Dean - Castiel had felt the ripples of demonic satisfaction across the miles - and then, here Dean was. Just like anything else Crowley promised and delivered to him.  
He's not happy with keeping Dean immobile, but not certain yet that it's safe to let him free. Crowley sets a slow pace, circling Dean. A predator. But his voice is gentle.  
"The problem with you, pet, is that you want to be _seen_ to do the right thing more than you want to _do_ the right thing. And most of the time it's not even the right thing anyway. Give it up, just once. Let yourself _be_. So, you indulge in a little slap and tickle with a millennia-old creature who for some reason thinks the sun rises and sets on you? Where's the harm? You think _you_ can damage _him_? I'll never fail to be impressed at your ego: it's one of your most delightful attributes." He stops. Looks up at Dean's face, caught in a frustrated snarl. "The question is: how the hell did you come to the conclusion that you can handle an angel in bed?"  
  
It's a fair point, although rather confrontationally made. Castiel has considered it, privately. Imagined it, in shameful secret. Dean's hands on him, the warmth of that soft smile up close. But Crowley isn't wrong - it could be very dangerous to Dean if handled carelessly. "Hey, you're the one who asked me to be here," Dean spits, and Castiel frowns. Moves between the two of them, close enough that Dean is forced to really look at him.  
  
"You don't have to do this, if you don't want to. I won't be disappointed."  
  
He can see it, from the corner of his eye, Crowley mouthing ‘he will’ before arranging his face into a perfectly guileless expression. It must appear to Dean as if this is all a joke to Crowley: that's certainly how Crowley seems to want it to appear; but Castiel can feel the truth, singing through their connection.  
Dean narrows his eyes. "No, I... You really won't be disappointed?"  
  
"Oh, for crying out loud." Crowley heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, he'll be disappointed if you leave. Yes, I'll be disappointed if I don't get some carnal gratification from at least one of you sad-sacks sometime this century. No, the world is not going to end if your frankly tedious UST is finally broken, now for the love of all that is sacred and profane will you both put down your tiny violins and _kiss_?"  
  
Castiel blinks and is startled out of his invisible grip on Dean - who stumbles, now that he is not being held immobile. Castiel catches him, and so Dean is virtually in his arms. Gazing at him in surprise. So it seems like hardly any distance at all from there to lip-on-lip, mouth-on-mouth, as Crowley has instructed.  
  
He hears Crowley sigh again, as if from a great distance. Dean's lips against his are momentarily frozen, as if Castiel is still holding him motionless, until they're not, and Dean is melting against him, hands moving to rest lightly against Castiel's elbows. His mouth every bit as gentle as Castiel ever hoped, soft and dry and warm and tentative. He lets it happen. The background shimmer of his and Crowley's bond is unignorable in its twitching anxiety, envy, admiration, arousal; but Crowley, for once, remains tactfully silent. Dean's eyes are closed. Castiel places an uncertain hand on his waist - this is so different to being with Crowley, so unfamiliar and _loaded_ \- and Dean makes a quiet noise, his lips parting beneath Castiel's.  
It’s unspeakably gentle, and Castiel is frightened. Because Dean, for all his strength, is so very _fragile_ compared to an angel. So small and breakable against the enormity of Castiel. He must send a flare of this anxiety through the link between them, because here Crowley is, placing a warm hand on Castiel's back in quiet comfort. _Thank you_ , Castiel tells him, silently.  
He can feel Crowley watching. His silent fascination. He wonders if this is how Crowley felt when Castiel observed him with that young man, here in this very room... The memory lights something within him. Within his vessel. Makes it press closer to Dean, and in answer Dean makes another sound, low and urgent and disbelieving, and the rhythmic motion of his mouth ticks up a notch. Winds tighter. Behind him, Crowley murmurs an approving little hum. And it feels incendiary. Like there is heat licking at the corners of the very room itself, waiting to spark and catch and conflagrate. The vessel is too tight. Impossibly tight. Castiel doesn't know how it's still containing him, can feel himself leaking out at the edges like the sun's corona at the periphery of an eclipse. Dean makes a small sound, as if on some level his soul can feel what his human senses are blind to, and abruptly Castiel pulls back. Turns and hides in Crowley's arms, trying to pull himself in again.  
  
"Shhhh. There's no rush." Crowley's human voice is unflustered. Soothing. His big hands smooth down the nape of Castiel's neck.  
  
"What's - Cas? What did I do?" Dean is radiating confusion. Fear. Rejection.  
  
"This was a mistake."  
  
"No it wasn't," Crowley corrects him without hesitation. "You did nothing wrong." There should be some modifier after that, _dummy_ or, _for once_ or some other snide comment. But it doesn't come. And Crowley's vessel is sturdy with demon-magic: Castiel feels himself start to simmer down again. "He gets... excited." Crowley says. His voice _full_. "I told you. He's wanted you for a very long time, darling. And, well: angel. That small fact you do seem to so often forget."  
  
"So, what - we make out and it's back to burst eardrums and bleeding eyes?"  
  
"No," Castiel mumbles, his face still resting against Crowley's, almost all of his eyes closed. "I can control it. I just wasn't expecting..." He takes a slow, unnecessary breath. Stands upright again, facing Dean square on. "When Crowley and I are intimate, I don't need to be so... bound, by the vessel. I can take risks that I wouldn't with a human. I suppose I've grown used to it." It's hard to put this into human language. The words feel clunky on his tongue. "But you needn't be afraid. Crowley will keep you safe." _He always does_ , Castiel wants to point out. Crowley is attached to Dean, in a way that should be obvious to any observer. Protective of him, in his own strange way.  
  
Crowley snorts, but holds his tongue. He's good at silence when he wants something. Tactical complicity.  
Dean says nothing, too, although Castiel can sense it's less through tact than speechlessness. His eyes flick, wary, to Crowley when Crowley speaks. "Put it this way: think of me as a translator. Allow me to demonstrate." And then it's Crowley's lips against Castiel's, soft and hungry and familiar.  
  
It's easier, this time, to relax into it. There's no weight behind it, the weight of years of longing and betrayal that lies over every interaction between Castiel and Dean, the ache of all those almosts. This is familiar. Safe. Castiel kisses the vessel and the demon inside it, tongues fiercely at the fire of him. He's himself again. Easy in his own power, comfortable. The part of him that is still pure angel, still untouched by humanity, responds to the demon instinctively - with hunger, aggression, the desire to overpower and consume, and the demon preens. Stretches toward his light, rolls over in eager submission.  
All Dean will see is a kiss: perhaps a somewhat heated one. When Crowley pulls away - Castiel left vessel-breathless - Dean's eyes are round and unsure, but any words are stolen from his mouth as Crowley takes it. "Pucker up, stud." It's Castiel who moans as their lips collide. It seems so easy for Crowley - his essence is rejoicing, enjoying, full of triumph - easy to fist a hand in Dean's shirt and tug him down. To kiss him with so much more ferocity than he shows Castiel.  
  
It's _fascinating_. Castiel can't look away, even for an instant. He wonders if Dean can taste anything of him in Crowley's mouth, or if human senses are too dull for such nuance. "Beautiful," he tells them, sincerely.  
  
Crowley pats Dean's cheek, affectionate and smug. He straightens his collar for him and Dean wriggles huffily out of his grasp as Crowley says, "You heard the angel."

"Cas..?" He's so evidently still having trouble with this. It's not a role it's easy for him to play, that much is clear. Castiel wonders what he imagined this would be. Something along the lines of one of Crowley's dalliances, perhaps. Something _human_.  
  
It makes Castiel want to comfort him. He's never been able to witness any need of Dean's without wanting to be the one who meets it. He steps closer, and wonders if Dean is aware of the way his soul yearns for Castiel, how it reaches for him imploringly as he moves just beyond its reach to stand behind Dean, with his hands on those broad shoulders. "Do you trust me, Dean?" he asks, quietly. He's honestly not sure what the answer will be.  
  
But it's immediate. Sincere. "Yeah. Cas, of course. It's _you_ , man." He looks cast adrift. Castiel recognises this expression from Crowley's face- the unseen one that nobody but Castiel knows. They're all just treading water, frantically trying to stay afloat. "What do you want me to do, Cas? Tell me, and I'll do it."  
  
Castiel's fingers drift like seabirds over the muscle of Dean's shoulders, his neck, fluttering at the line where his hair meets skin. Dean bows subconsciously into that touch. And they're usually so careful with each other, so careful not to touch where touch may be unwanted, so that now this feels _forbidden_ , like something Castiel shouldn't be allowing himself. "I want you to tell me - do you find Crowley appealing? Physically? You feel attraction towards him?" He keeps his hands on Dean as he speaks, as he might try to gentle a skittish animal. Crowley is smirking at them as if he already knows the answer.  
  
"Him? No!" Dean's aura flutters, panicked.

Crowley explodes a loud snort of laughter and inspects his fingernails, glancing up from beneath his lashes at Castiel. At Dean. "Not what you said in-"

"Crowley, shut your pie-hole."

"And again, that's not what you sai-"

"Shut up!"  
Crowley holds his hands up, placating. Mimes zipping his lips, locking and throwing away the key. There's no need for him to speak, anyway: Castiel can read their link as clear as words.  
  
Castiel's lips touch the sensitive skin below Dean's ear. "But you have had sexual intercourse with him. You enjoyed it." He feels Dean swallow.  
  
"Yeah, but I don't... I was a…" The words die on his lips. Castiel can feel every nuance: his heartrate picking up pace, capillaries dilating, hairs prickling to attention. His temperature rising, so slightly but so significantly. Dean closes his eyes, swallows again, tightly, his hands fisted at his sides. "OK. Whatever." He breathes in, long, through his nose like he's psyching himself up. "How do we do this?"  
  
Castiel is silent for a long moment. He waits for words for come to him, but when they do they aren't the words he's been expecting at all. "I don't think we do this at all." He glances at Crowley, apologetically. "I'm sorry. I know this was what you wanted." He steps away from Dean, has to put some distance between them. Because he _wants_. He wants Dean more than he wants Heaven, more than he has ever desired or coveted anything in his unfathomably long life. But not like this. Not this lukewarm thing, awkward and uncomfortable and seemingly one-sided. "I don't enjoy reluctance." He allows himself to touch Dean's cheek like a lover, one first and last time. "I can't be part of something that makes you this unhappy. You shouldn't have to do this out of loyalty or obligation. It should be given freely." He smiles a little, wistful. "I might not know much about human sexual practices. But I know that much."  
  
"Top marks, mate. Your burly macho facade has survived completely intact."

Crowley shoots Dean a look as acidic as his tone. Reaches a hand towards Castiel's shoulder, and Dean says, "Wait." He still looks torn. Pained. But he reaches out a hand, too. Touches Castiel's arm, fingers plucking at the sleeve of his coat. "Don't go. I'm... giving it freely. Whatever it is. Crowley said... He knew how I feel about you. How I've... Shit, this is hard. Can we pretend you're just some chick in a bar because, man, I am great with that script."  
  
Castiel tilts his head to one side, frowning. "So the gender of this vessel _does_ bother you. I've long suspected it."  
  
"Bother me? Cas, you don't - nothing about you _bothers_ me. I'm just not used to... Crowley, this was your idea, man," Dean casts a desperately appealing look. "A little help here?"  
  
"What I think our dear Squirrel is trying to articulate is," Castiel feels the heat of him, vibrating their connection, tugging so determinedly that Castiel leans into him, physically. "Whilst he's perfectly amenable to getting it on with both girls and boys - and believe me, is he ever - his long years of lamentable conditioning as to what," Crowley's voice drops into a gruff mockery of a Southern accent, "makes a man a man, have led him to, how best to put it? Protest too much. He wants you, angel. He bloody wants _me_ , although his frankly bizarre sense of pride won't allow him to admit it. But you... He's not used to his dalliances _mattering_. He's quite content to get his jollies on with the hot demon and then punch and run, but he’s scared of having to look _you_ in the eye in the morning, and the one after that, and the one after that... Of the possibility that people might find out that he's in love with his best buddy and he likes it up the bum." Crowley raises an elegant eyebrow. "That about cover it, sweet-cheeks?"

There's an awkward cough, Dean clearing his throat and nodding stiffly and looking anywhere but at Castiel. His voice is thick when he says, "Pretty much."  
  
Humanity, Castiel decides, is beyond his ability to comprehend. He looks back and forth between the two of them. Dean has always struggled, he knows, under the weight of his upbringing and his family's expectations. It's a burden Castiel wishes he could lift. When he reaches out to take Dean's elbow it's slow, but more determined. There's so much to say. So much they should have said to each other years ago. He draws Dean into his arms and holds him there, silently. Lets him rest his head on Castiel's shoulder until the tension in his spine starts to unwind.  
  
"I'm sorry, Cas." He exhales a weak laugh, breath warm against Castiel's neck. "Saving the world, I can do."  
  
"Just heaven forfend you ask him to talk about feelings." The silver thread, hanging between states, jitters: Crowley is toying with it. "Would you two lovebirds prefer to be alone? I'm an understanding kind of guy: I'll take a raincheck." Castiel can't help it, he clings to the thread, grips it tight. "Easy," Crowley says. "Easy. It was just a suggestion."  
  
"What?" Dean looks up, confused. He's got the barest hint of the glassiness Crowley gets in his eyes when Castiel has taken a lot from him. It's startling, that it takes so little to get him there. Worrying, almost. Castiel doubts his own ability to be delicate enough to touch such a precious, fragile thing. And he knows Dean would hate to think of himself in that way, but he can't help it.  
  
"I don't want you to leave," Castiel tells Crowley audibly, for Dean's sake.  
  
"Well, there's a happy coincidence." Crowley beams, pleased. His essence strokes along the thread.  
Dean is silent. Unprotesting. Castiel feels an elbow nudge his ribs. "I think you should kiss him again." Crowley says, conversationally. "Or, if you'd rather I..?"  
  
Castiel shakes his head. "I want him lying down. Get him on the bed." He wants, _needs_ Dean comfortable. Coddled, just a little. "You beside him."  
  
Crowley's essence flares, approval and a level of lust that might be alarming were Castiel not to suspect that the reason was merely that Crowley does so enjoy having Castiel ask for what he wants. Dean says, "Dude. I can put myself to bed." But he sounds dazed rather than annoyed, and Crowley's observation that he protests to save some imagined reputation, rather than from any real objection, is starting to make stark sense. He lies, obediently, on his back. Full length and fully clothed on the spacious bed, and Crowley crawls up, tucks in bedside him, a black comma against the snowy white throw.

"Comfortable, Squirrel?"

"Mmm." A hint of a genuine smile breaking through. "S'good mattress." He glances at Castiel and his eyes hold a lot of things unsaid. "Room for three? Or will I like... burst into flames if you touch me?" He grins, but the yearning is there. "Am I allowed to look at you at least?"  
  
Castiel can't help feeling tender towards them both, like this. Lying together in the soft, white cocoon of the hotel room, waiting for Castiel's instruction. "There will be no literal bursting into flames," he says, amused at the thought of it. "You can look as much as much as you please. But for now, I would like Crowley to kiss you on my behalf."  
  
Crowley waggles his eyebrows, and Dean groans, but Castiel can sense no genuine antipathy there- perhaps a hint of disappointment. Frustration.  Crowley's voice is soft. "See. I told you: translator. Lucky I'm such a talented poly...glot..."

"Poly what now?" As Crowley leans in, a lazy grin breaks over Dean's face, and something stirs again in Castiel's chest.  
  
"Dean," he says, the word barely more than an exhale. "I want to touch you. But I can't allow you to be hurt. When I touch Crowley..." The link between them shivers with arousal. "I hurt him." It feels like a confession. Something intensely private, not to be casually disclosed.  
  
He watches Dean's brows crease. Crowley nosing still at his jawline. "You mean, on-purpose sexy-time hurt him?" Beside him, Crowley murmurs what might be assent. "'Cause I know what he's into. Believe me- it's why I was so freaked about the two of you. But what are you telling me?" His voice drops lower. Wary but interested. "Do you... want to hurt me? You saying you're some kinda sadist?"  
  
"No," Castiel replies, a little too quickly. And then - "I don't know. I don't want you to be hurt. I want..." _To take care of you._ "I want to touch you. To know you."  
  
"To _know_ me." Dean repeats. The grin is back, dazed and drunk on diffused grace. "So, you just wanna hurt Crowley cos he's a kinky fuck who likes the rough stuff? Hey!" His expression of surprised affront when Crowley catches the curve of his throat in a soft, brief bite is strangely endearing: Castiel's chest squeezes, then echoes hollow when Crowley says, "Cas, darling- may I unwrap your gift for you?"  
  
Castiel nods to Crowley. He's seen Dean's bare body before, has rebuilt it from the ground up, but there's something about the thought of Crowley exposing Dean for him. "Slowly," he says. "I want to see." He stands at the foot of the bed, staring down at them. Dean seems restless under the scrutiny. "I want to hurt Crowley because he's a demon," Castiel explains cautiously. "Do you understand?"  
  
"Hell yeah I understand. You and me both, man." His tone is light. Joking. And he raises up off the pillows, struggles arms from shirt sleeves to help Crowley coax them free, but he's nervous, still. Naturally so, Castiel supposes, if this has been something so long desired.  
  
"Whatever did I do to deserve the both of you?" Crowley drawls. Dean raises his arms dutifully and Crowley slides his tshirt up, reveals the flex of lean muscle beneath soft skin, smooth and pale. "Both so sweet to me. Off." He tugs the shirt free and Dean's head emerges, hair tousled. Crowley balls the shirt up, throws it onto the plush carpet. Carefully slips his own jacket off, unbidden. His hands hover at the buckle of Dean's belt as he glances, questioning, at Castiel.  
  
"Hmm. I'm not sure you do understand." But the words aren't there to describe it. "I hurt Crowley because I know he can take it. And beyond that, enjoy it." Castiel nods his assent at Crowley, who immediately sets to work on Dean's belt. "But pain isn't the objective."  
  
"Pain's just the journey." Crowley whispers, conspiratorially, to somewhere in the vicinity of Dean's crotch. He eases his jeans down, slowly, slowly... Dean closes his eyes, lifts his hips. The bulge in his underwear says that he's hard already: Crowley rests a palm there, presses, and Dean gives a helpless low moan. "Oh, Squirrel. I did miss you." Crowley's voice rumbles, lust-doused. His golden eyes full of delight as he looks back up at Castiel. Awaiting further instruction, Castiel realises with a jolt.  
  
"Tell Crowley you missed him, too," Castiel tells Dean, who squirms on the bed and laughs a little breathlessly.  
  
"No way," he says, voice still full of laughter, and that just won't do.  
  
"Crowley, take your hands off Dean," Castiel instructs, and he's gratified to see Crowley comply so readily, obedience coming naturally and fluidly to him. "Don't touch him again until he's told you he missed you."  
  
"You heard the angel, pet." Crowley cocks an eyebrow, folds his hands demurely in his lap. Presses his lips solemnly together, even as Castiel can feel the trill of amusement through their binding.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says, unconvincingly. "Crowley I missed you."  
  
"Once more with feeling, love." Crowley's smile spreads, wicked. "I've witnessed more impassioned performances in kindergarten nativities."  
  
Dean sighs. "Crowley. I missed you too." He sounds utterly, purposefully insincere, but Crowley tilts his head and fixes Castiel with a lazy amber gaze.

"He really wants my hands on him quite badly, doesn't he? He'll say anything to get you to let me. I'd call that clear unspoken proof that he wants me."  
  
Castiel feels himself crinkle at the edges like a smile. Crowley is at his most endearing when he's displaying this mix of charming smugness and the insecurity that Castiel can feel as sharply as toothache. "Of course he wants you," Castiel says, with sincerity. "He wants you so much that he hides it, because he knows it makes him vulnerable. Put your hands on him."  
  
"Mmm." Crowley turns his attention back to Dean with a rumbling little purr of affirmation. And Dean swallows again when he looks at him, his expression melting into something hotter, less feigned. He always did seen to find actions easier than words. "So... _where_ do I touch?" Dean bares his teeth, raises his chin, as Crowley skims one broad palm across his chest. Looks questioningly up at Castiel once more.  
  
"His throat." Castiel doesn't miss the way Dean's thick eyelashes flutter at the word. "I want you to touch his throat for me."  
  
Crowley bites his lip at that, pulls his lower lip between sharp white teeth. His hands wander, savouring every shivering little hair that raises, every barely-perceptible hitch of breath. One hand circles Dean's neck, cradles the nervous jump of his Adam's Apple as he swallows. Pupils dilating. Crowley would like to _squeeze_ : Castiel can feel it; it's almost reflex. But he doesn't. One thick thumb strokes Dean's jugular, so gently. "Just my hands? Or may I use my mouth on him?"  
  
Castiel feels something in him pulse at the suggestion. Something white and icy-hot. "Yes. Your mouth." And it isn't just the thought of it, Crowley's vessel with its warm mouth all over Dean's skin, but the fact that Crowley is asking for permission, making a production out of asking, making sure that Dean is aware of how they work, how they relate to each other. It's exactly what Castiel wants. For Dean to see and to understand, for him to accept it. Even, perhaps, to enjoy it.  
  
Dean says, "Dude..." with just the slightest edge of complaint at the stroke of Crowley's tongue. But the whine in his tone turns to a moan at the first sign of teeth.  
"What's your policy on leaving... evidence?" Crowley's voice is dark, muffled against stubbled skin.

Dean says, quietly, "Dude, no," but the words break off in another little helpless groan as Crowley pinches flesh softly between his teeth, rolls and tastes.

"Sorry, darling. Not your call. Only Cas gets to call the shots. Unless, of course, you want out..?"  
  
"Leave whatever marks most please you," Castiel interrupts. "I'll remove them before he leaves, if he's uncomfortable with the sight of them." He finds the idea of mottling Dean's skin into bruises... more appealing than it should be. There's something possessive about it - like his hand print, a mark of ownership, of belonging.  
  
"Are you game, Squirrel?"

Silky hot murmur, and Dean says, "Fuck..."

Crowley chuckles, his teeth delicately delineating the stretch of muscle. "I'll take that as a yes." Castiel knows how those teeth feel. But not how they feel to a human, perhaps. Dragging across the salt heat of vulnerable flesh. Pinching pink, crimped crescents there. Castiel leans in. Drinks in Dean's stifled whimpers as Crowley's kisses write an obscene signature across his throat. "Oh, angel. You should taste him. My favourite vintage."  
  
Castiel squeezes his hands into fists and doesn't let himself go to them, doesn't let himself taste Dean's body as he so wants to. Soon, he promises himself. Soon he'll let himself indulge, once he's certain he can control himself. "I want you to taste him for me."  
  
"Where?" Crowley's smile tilts up at the side. Reaches his eyes. Warm. One hand sidles downwards, toys with the soft line of hair the winds down from Dean's navel, disappears beneath his underwear.

"Cas..." It's more breath than word: Dean already sounds close to begging.  
  
"His hip." Castiel wants to put his mouth on the jut of it, his real mouth, the one that would burn Dean's flesh away.  
  
The thread between himself and Crowley throbs. Fattens and pulses. Crowley is adlibbing. He crawls backwards, a sleek dark shape against the white bedding, trailing a path of open mouthed kisses down towards Dean's waist. And Dean, forgetting for a moment to protest, cranes his neck to watch, his own mouth dropped open in a sweet little O. "Shame your manners aren't as pretty, sweetheart."

"Bite me, Crowley." Dean manages, then his eyes are squeezing ecstatically shut before Crowley even has chance to unleash teeth.

Crowley chuckles again. "Are you suuuure?" The tips of his fingers skim the tight edge of waistband, dip and pluck and tease, and Dean lifts his hips and groans until Crowley's tongue is dutifully tracing a loving path across the jut of one hip.  
  
It's decadent. Like the hot chocolate Crowley likes to feed Castiel when he visits. Rich and sweet, the way they move together. Castiel wants to pry Dean's soul from his body and lavish such kisses on it as these, to mouth at it with all of his true mouths, huge and terrible, to leave Dean blind and trembling, half mad with pleasure. He gropes for the bond between himself and Crowley and pushes all his lust and aggression through it. Lets it touch Crowley like a living thing. On a level beyond Dean's ability to comprehend, he hears the demon screaming. Here, in the room, the mouth of Crowley's vessel opens a little wider and he moans, helpless, against the smooth crease of Dean's hip. They're lovely like this. Both so overwhelmed. Because of Castiel. "Can you feel him?" Crowley murmurs. "The ripples?"

"I don't... I dunno what you mean."

"Oh, you can. I can taste it on you. Do you know what he's doing to me, darling? Would you like him to touch you like that?"  
  
"Take the rest of his clothes off," Castiel orders. It helps, having control over them. Helps him keep control of himself. "And your own. I want you unclothed together." He tries to ease the touch this time, to send waves of himself smoother, gentler through the link into Crowley's body. And Crowley purrs silently, his essence vibrating as he rolls his shoulders and stretches luxuriously, tugging his tie loose, dropping it carelessly from the bed. Dean is watching him now, instead of watching Castiel. He's staring as if he's never really looked at Crowley before in his life. Perhaps he's never seen him like this. Plucking each shirt button open with slow deliberation. Baring himself at an angel's command. Crowley is graceful, neat, as ever. He leaves his underwear on as he tackles Dean's. Tormentingly slow. Easing snug jersey down over the prominent jut of Dean's erection. Dean hisses a breath in through his teeth.  
  
Castiel can't help touching Crowley again. Can't see him bared like this and not want to touch. He does it invisibly, with the vague idea that Dean might not want to see... might not even be capable of seeing the things Castiel wants to do to the demon. His grace skitters on Crowley's skin, giddy, prickling like static electricity, looking for a way in to the creature inside. "How do you want him, Crowley?" he asks, and his voice is already rough.  
  
Crowley's essence swims. Blurry at the edges with pleasure, fuzzy and red and already spread thin, yearning towards the bright eye of Castiel's grace. His mouth is open. Panting softly. Every unseen part of him, open, wanting. Castiel pictures his true face. Mouth open, _wanting_ , and he shivers with desire, the sensation shimmering through every facet and feather of him like the tinkling of bells. "However it most pleases you, pet. We're your creatures. Or does it please you for me to choose?"  
  
Dean looks openly baffled, as if this isn't at all what he'd imagined. As if he's not sure what's happening, aware that he's missing things but not knowing what. Castiel could make him understand, could _show_ him... "I want you to approximate on him what I'm doing to you. To show him what he can't see." He catches Dean's eye and holds it, and whatever Dean sees there makes him crumple like silk, turn liquid and pleading.  
  
"I..." Crowley's voice is low, rough. He clings to Castiel's light, begging, yearning. "I don't know how to... Nothing can..." He traces a hand down Dean's cheek. Helpless. Leans in to press their mouths together again. Desperate but soft. Nothing like Crowley's demonstration of their prior shared kisses. Their erections press flush, grinding together through the thin layer of Crowley's underwear, and Dean moans into Crowley's mouth like he's forgetting himself.

Castiel removes Crowley's underwear with no more than a thought, wanting to see them against each other, their genitalia, the similarities and differences between them. He wants to tip Crowley onto his back and have them lie there side by side while he studies them, catalogues each feature. And Crowley arches his back at the feel of it. His broad ribcage expands; a held breath. He reaches down and takes both of them in hand, palm wrapping around both of their straining erections and Dean mutters, "Oh yeah... like that..."  
  
Castiel doesn't stop to think about it before extending his power and freezing the both of them in place again, Crowley's big hand still wrapped around them. "Wait a moment," Castiel says, and walks slowly around the bed. "Let me look at you." They're beautiful. Frozen in tableau. Dean's cheeks are flushed, high on his cheekbones. His lips plush and puffed with arousal, his eyes already glassy. The aesthetic contrast between them is marked. Pleasing. They complement one another well, both so strong and healthy-looking in their own distinct ways. And he knows Crowley's vessel now, as familiar to him as his own, but Dean's is a new mystery. Revealed.  
  
He lets them move again, and instantly Dean gasps as if he's been held under water. "What the hell was that?" He sounds affronted, but his aura is burnished like liquid gold, aroused and needy.  
  
"That was..." Crowley pauses, readjusts, sliding one knee between Dean's thighs, "a little taste of what it's like to fuck an angel, love."  
  
"That's..." Dean stares at Castiel as if he's never seen him before. Castiel leans down over the bed until they are eye to eye. Dean’s eyes search all over Castiel's face, as if his facial expression will hold answers. Castiel does not blink. "I know that you like it," he says, quietly, privately. "You like to be overpowered by me. I can feel it. But if it helps you to pretend that you don't, then by all means continue."  
  
From beside him, Crowley makes an approving sound. Rolls to the side, wriggling comfortably until he's lying on his belly, chin propped in his hand, exhibiting what Dean would probably refer to as a 'shit-eating grin'. "No secrets, Squirrel. It's yummy, really- this one doesn't even need a safe-word: he can feel what you're feeling."

"This is fucked up." Dean's voice is quiet. His aura is not. It's affirming again and again what Castiel has asserted: he wants this.

"Isn't it just?" _And isn't it delicious?_ \- even Dean must hear that unspoken addendum.

Crowley's fingers trail a path from Dean's knee, up one sturdy thigh. He glances, questioning, at Castiel. And Castiel nods at him, granting permission, then turns his attention back to Dean. "You don't let yourself have what you want. You don't even let yourself acknowledge that you want it." When Crowley's hand reaches its goal, Dean's mouth opens in a silent moan, and he looks at Castiel like he's desperate for something. "I think it's time for that to change."  
  
Crowley's hand massages, strokes the length of him, and the vicarious feeling of it, the high, shudders through Castiel like a direct touch. "What do you want, Squirrel? Tell him."

"Cas..." Dean manages, his voice beautifully broken. "I want you. Always have. Please..."  
  
Castiel reaches out and touches a thumb to Dean's mouth. A tiny touch, a small point of contact between them. "I've wanted you, too," he confesses. "Crowley knew it from the start."  
  
"To be fair, a casual bystander would have spotted it a mile off. It just took you halfwits this long - Oi!"  
  
"Thought you liked pain?" Dean's voice is lazy-slurry but that easy grin is there, his reflexes still just about quick enough to deliver a play-slap to Crowley's cheek. It didn't hurt - Castiel would know if it did - but Crowley still pouts. It's appealing. It makes Castiel want to slap him too.  
  
"He does," Castiel tells Dean. "He's greedy for it. Hurt him again."  
  
Dean is uncertain. It radiates off him. He's struck Crowley so often when they've fought, but here, now - the context is so different. Castiel remembers clearly - with such exquisite clarity - the vignettes of Dean and Crowley's past that Crowley has painted for him, in ardour-dizzy whispers. The glimpses he's snatched from Crowley's dreams. They were rough with each other, but not violent, and it was always Crowley holding Dean down, ploughing into him; Dean, black-eyed and grinning and demanding more. The next slap, when it comes, rings sudden and loud in the luxurious white stillness of the suite. It's noisy, showy, rather than painful, but Crowley's essence still flares with a hungry intensity that makes Castiel reach out a hand to steady his vessel. Crowley's eyes flare, there's that tell-tale crackle of the air surrounding him. " _Harder_ ," he says. "Make me _ache_ for you."  
  
"Fuck," Dean says, and his voice cracks in the middle of the word.  
  
"Don't worry, Dean," Castiel tells him, and takes his hand, placing it on the plush curve of Crowley's rear and laying his own hand on top. "I'll help you." Dean only has a moment for confusion before Castiel is sending a jolt of lightning through their joined hands and on into Crowley, enough to make his back arch, to make him stiffen and shriek, while Dean cries out at the force of what's passing through him.  
  
Castiel wishes that Dean could feel this. All of it. How Crowley melts into the pain, his essence going soft and fluttery. Blushing. His vessel sags, back onto the bed, his hips circling involuntarily, breath coming fast against the pristine sheets.

"Crowley?" Dean asks, and Castiel is surprised to taste a spike of concern from him.

The answer is a breathless laugh. Crowley's voice, slurred with satisfaction. "Oh, yes. That's the good stuff."

Castiel strokes Crowley's hair. It's a gesture that's as much for Dean's benefit as Crowley's - Castiel could touch him in far more intimately tender ways than Dean is capable of comprehending. Hurting Crowley always makes him feel like this. Tender and adoring. And Crowley arches weakly into the touch, humming a low noise of pleasure. He's simmering, now. Quiet and satisfied and hot, but nowhere near sated. This is much more complicated with Dean here. Dean, who Castiel does not yet know how to touch. "Far be it from me to complain at the attention. But perhaps something more... physical?" Castiel watches, Dean glancing down and catching Crowley's eye, the unspoken exchange between them every bit as meaningful in its way as the shimmering web connecting him and Crowley. He says, "Cas?" But he's still holding Dean's gaze, like a rat fearless before a fox.  
  
Castiel is less comfortable with physical. But Dean is here, and Dean is the most physical being he knows. "Yes, Crowley. Tell me what you want." Whatever it is, Castiel will have Dean perform it for him.  
  
Crowley turns, not quite rolling over. It's a syrupy movement, as if he lacks the energy to turn over fully. He regards Castiel with burning eyes. "Undress for us, pet. Give us a little show while I see to him."  
  
Remembering Crowley's request for _physical,_ Castiel undresses slowly, physically. First the jacket, then the belt. He loosens his tie, slides it off. He's getting used to the clothes he wears with Crowley, sensual clothes, garments that drape softly, exquisite beside the skin. Wearing the clothes that are most familiar to Dean is becoming an effort, a chore. He lets them fall to the floor. Unbuttons his shirt. Crowley's eyes on him are hot as late afternoon sunlight. One hand absently caresses Dean's belly, wraps loosely around the base of his erection and Dean's hips lift, his lips part. This double scrutiny is strange. Intense. Perhaps Crowley senses as much: when Castiel's hands move to his waistband and Dean breathes a shaky low "Cas..." Crowley ducks his head. Takes Dean's penis into his mouth in one smooth, practised motion. And Dean's mouth opens wider, he moans, "Oh, God," but he doesn't take his eyes off Castiel for even a moment.  
  
Castiel pauses to watch him back. He's curious, wants to know how it feels to each of them, to be so close to the sensation that he's almost inhabiting it. "Tell me what it feels like," he says, holding the sort of unblinking eye contact with Dean that he knows Dean tends to find eerie. He unbuttons his pants, lets them fall.  
  
Dean's throat constricts, visibly, swallowing hard, elegant line of tendons standing beneath the scatter of purple bruises Crowley has left on him. "Fuck, Cas... Good, it feels... Man, you look good. So hot, I..." The words trail off into a groan, incoherent and deep. Crowley tilts his head, pulling off Dean's length and nuzzling at the curls around the base of him. Mouthing, open-mouthed and luxuriant, at spit-wet flesh while he cradles Dean's sac in one hand.

"I'm afraid he's not much of a talker by this point, Sparkles." Castiel loves how Crowley's voice roughens when his mouth has been employed in this manner. Wonders if the same would happen to Dean. "I mean, let's be crystal, he's not exactly a poet when he _doesn't_ have the best this side of 1650 sucking what brains he has out through his gigglestick."

"Crowley _shut up_." Dean sounds honestly frustrated, his fingers fisting in the back of Crowley's hair, urging his mouth back to business. But Crowley turns his head, laps a long slow lick from base to tip.

"'Fraid not, champ. Only Cassie gets to order me around. And right now he's asking for details." His eyes are bright as he levels his gaze at Castiel. "Angel, would you like my descriptive perspective? Or would you rather enter me as I ride him?"  
  
Castiel is a difficult creature to shock. But the thought of being inside Crowley, squeezing into the tightness of his vessel alongside him as he also takes Dean into himself... it's breathtaking. "You would consent to that?"

"What do you say, Dean-o? Are you up for spicing things up a little?" He addresses Dean, but his eyes are still holding Castiel's gaze, golden and piercing as a big cat's, even as his mouth is still ghosting across the flushed head of Dean's erection.

Dean says, "Jesus, Crowley, you mean like - DP?" And it's unusual how he can manage to sound disgusted and ecstatic in equal measure.

"In a manner of speaking... Two entities, one vessel. You have my solemn word it'll be nothing but delicious for all involved. Cas?"  
  
Castiel has no talent for deception. He finds himself capable only of utter honesty here. "I want it." He leans in, closer to Crowley, drawn to him. Desire prickles the surface of him like electricity. "Crowley... I want it."  
  
It's Dean who shivers, although if it's from the ripples of grace energy, demonic lust, or from his own desire at Castiel's response, is anyone's guess. Crowley replaces his mouth with a hand, stroking Dean's arousal slow and slick. "Squirrel?"

"What he said." Fast, breathless. His words falling over themselves. "I want it."

Crowley's smile of triumph is so sweet, his eyes all honey. Rolling over on the bed again, he gets to his knees. Straddles Dean easily, rubbing Dean's eager-wet hardness between his thighs.  
  
Castiel climbs onto the bed, on all fours, stopping beside them. Dean’s eyes are wide and round, and so very green. Castiel cups Crowley's face in one hand, cherishing the way Crowley nuzzles into his touch, like a dangerous creature to the hand that tamed it. He peers into Crowley's eyes. Beyond them. "There's barely room in you," he murmurs, and feels the way Dean's hips stutter.  
  
" _Try me_." That familiar stubbornness of tone that Castiel has to confess that he's developed a distinct affection for. Crowley's chest heaves, the silky hair there darkened already with perspiration, as he sinks determinedly down onto Dean's erection.

Dean breathes, "Ffffff.... Yeah..." Splays his palms across Crowley's thighs, guiding him, and Crowley arches back and captures Castiel's mouth in a kiss, earnest and wet and a little desperate.

A stronger being than Castiel would have been unable to resist it. Castiel sinks into him, forcing space in the tightness of the vessel. Crowley is stretched impossibly thin. Full to the brim in every conceivable way. He cries out, and it's a sound that might be ecstasy or agony, his breath coming in ragged little gasps against Castiel's cheek. Castiel looks down, over Crowley’s shoulder, at Dean. His eyes are half closed, lashes fluttering. His cheeks pink, the blush tinting down his neck, across his chest. His hands have slipped from Crowley's thighs to grip his hips, firm, fingers digging into pale skin, pulling him down, deeper. Dean's hips roll, thrust. And Castiel can feel every sweet spike of it. "Beautiful," Castiel says, and leans to touch Dean's cheek with the back of his hand. Gentle. A caress that's almost out of place here. Dean is so dense inside, so fully within his own flesh. It's very different to Crowley, to the spaces inside him where the liquid smoke doesn't quite reach.

And Dean's skin is hot where he leans into Castiel's touch. Turns his head and mouths at his fingers, pink tongue flicking at their tips. Castiel feels untethered, precarious, only halfway in this vessel he's grown so accustomed to. Crowley moans, quietly. Reaches back for him, pulls him closer until his vessel is pressed flush against the back of Crowley's, as if they can merge in more ways than one. And Castiel can feel how he rocks against Dean from inside and out now. The stretch is exquisite, agonising, every short nudge of Crowley's hips punching a breathless little grunt from him. "Cas... Please... More... I want you deeper..." Crowley’s voice is ragged-soft. Castiel wonders if Dean has ever seen him like this before.

He coaxes Crowley to lean his head back, against his shoulder. "I shouldn't," he says, regretfully, pressing apologetic kisses to Crowley's hair.

Dean frowns up at him. "How come?" He almost looks a little frightened of Castiel when their eyes meet. Castiel debates internally how best to answer that question.  
  
"Because it hurts him. It could cause permanent damage." It already has, he doesn't say. "Crowley likes to be overwhelmed. Dangerously so, at times."

"But what a way to go..." Crowley laughs, softly. His hips circle, and he and Dean both gasp, in perfect unison. Between them, Crowley is still hard, despite being so full: proud and flushed and dripping. Neglected. Castiel shouldn't enjoy that so much.  "I'm a lot more resilient than you think, pet. Haven't lasted this long through being a-" he punctuates with a hard, quick shove that tears the most sinfully wanton moan from Dean's throat, "candyass."

Castiel holds Crowley tight. "Alright. But _slowly,_ Crowley. I mean it." He takes Crowley's wrists in his hands, holds them tight. Spares a moment to wonder what Dean makes of this before he's thrusting into Crowley, spiritually, going deeper. Feeling him from the inside, how sweet and bloody he is deep down, how spread he is around Dean's cock, how he loves it.

"Yesssss..." Crowley hisses out an ecstatic sigh, arching back against Castiel's vessel. Forward onto Dean's. And Castiel can feel it: the shimmering-tight buzz of their shared existence. The irresistible friction inside, the stretch and glide, the sweet heartbeat pulse of Dean's arousal.

"I can feel it," Castiel pants, in a voice that's half his and half Crowley's. "Dean, I can feel you." Castiel's touch is like ice in the heat of Crowley. It's like fucking a volcano. Castiel presses into the burn of it, the pressure, touches Crowley here where no other lover is allowed.

" _Cas_..." Dean all but sobs his name. Castiel leans closer, wraps his arms around Crowley's vessel, steadying. There's sweat shimmering in the hollow of Dean's collarbones. His hands, clutching Crowley's hips, are weakening with desire. The place where they're joined, all three of them, is all sensation: sweet, raw, an epiphany. "Yes, fuck, yeah, don't stop, that's it, Cas, yes..." Dean is gasping, pleasure-delirious. And Crowley is silent, his essence floating, pressed to bursting, his vessel's mouth sweet and slack, forgetting even the pretence of breathing.

Dean reaches for Castiel, body and soul, and Castiel is beyond the ability to resist the urge to touch him. To reach under the skin, just for a moment, and let Dean feel what it's like to have an angel inside him. To be, however briefly, within them both simultaneously. It's pure ecstasy. Dean’s orgasm is instantaneous. Crowley gentles him through it, and Castiel is amazed that he has any capacity for it given the state he's in, acting as a buffer between the fragile human and the colossal being of divine and terrible light trying to have sex with it. He feels the pulse of Dean's orgasm so much more keenly through Dean's soul than his body. Although he feels too, as Crowley feels, the sensation of it, there, between his legs. Crowley is getting sore, and - Castiel knows - he enjoys that. The feeling of finality, of being unable to take any more, physically or spiritually. Castiel can feel this too, now. Dean whimpers, shell-shocked and oversensitised and Crowley whispers something that Castiel doesn't hear, but he knows without words. He moves to touch Crowley at the same time as Dean, their hands meeting, and the ache and relief of it nearly overcomes him as Crowley reaches release.  
  
Castiel feels such tenderness for Crowley in the vulnerable moment of orgasm. Such desire. He holds him tight and thrusts into him again, forces his grace inside. He can't stop. "Please let me," he pleads, mouthing at Crowley's temple. "Don't tell me not to." And at Crowley's shaky acquiescence he lowers him gently into Dean's arms, still quivering with the sweet, achey little tremors of pleasure that Castiel can feel shivering through him. Dean is dazed. Uncomprehending. He takes Crowley into his arms as if on autopilot, threading fingers into his hair, kissing him soft and sweet as Castiel withdraws, then presses into Crowley again. The glide of it is exquisite. The way his grace catches on Crowley as if he's jagged inside. Castiel is dizzy.  
Blindly, Crowley finds Dean's mouth with his, swallows his shallow breaths, their lips moving slow together. Hypnotic. They're so beautiful. So beautiful and precarious. Castiel feels it, exquisite and sharp as a blade. He feels close to an edge. Something deep and climactic. Something unavoidable. He barely understands what's happening, but beneath him Crowley moans like he knows exactly what's coming and covers Dean's face with his hands, shielding him. "Hold tight, kitten," he murmurs, and then Castiel is nothing but light and sound, dispersing and coalescing again, washing out to the edges of the room, the building, the _city,_ while Crowley does his best to protect the human at the centre of it. It's both similar to and nothing like a physical orgasm in his vessel. It's purer. Scouring, sanctifying. The hotel room is glaringly bright with his grace. And then, in another moment, it's over. Nothing to show for it but the shatter of glass on the floor beneath each light fitting.  
  
It's monumental. It... changes things. Castiel snaps back into his vessel, panting. Feels so suddenly empty and alone that his grace reaches instinctively for Crowley. Crowley's vessel is shivering. For a moment Castiel is confused, shocked, until he realises that Crowley is shaking silently, exhaustedly, with mirth. His hands are still covering Dean's eyes, like both of them are too spent to move, and when Dean pushes them away with sluggish impatience, Dean's gaze is wide and aghast. "What the... what the _fuck_ just happened?"

"A lesson in..." Crowley snatches in a shaky breath of laughter, "why we should always use protection."

Castiel touches Crowley - with his hand, this time, stroking it down his back with great fondness. "My apologies," he whispers.

"You're apologising for the best lay I've had since Flower Power?" He can recognise when Crowley's teasing now, but the feeling is sincere: Crowley's essence is _glowing_.

"You shouldn't have to put yourself between us." Again. "I should have controlled myself."

"Cas, no..." Dean's voice is heavy, slurred. "That was... I've never felt anything like that, man... That was incredible."

Head lolling comfortably now against Dean's shoulder, Crowley cocks an eyebrow. "What loverboy said. Feel free to use me as your sandwich filling _any_ time, boys. Now..." There's the tiniest grunt of complaint as Crowley nudges Dean towards the edge of the huge bed, making space, but then Dean dutifully gathers him closer. "Come here, angel."  
  
Castiel goes where Crowley wants him, obedience coming easily. The link between them is fresh and bright, slippery with grace. Castiel lies beside Crowley, arms loose around him, feeling where Dean is also touching him. "I adore you," he tells Crowley. Quiet and sincere. Private in a way that makes Dean look away uncomfortably.

Crowley doesn't reply, but the link between them sings, joyful, and his tiny smile of pleasure can't be hidden. The teasing in his tone is not mockery when he says, "Now, tell Squirrel you adore him too."

Castiel's gaze drifts over to Dean. Surely, he thinks, surely Dean already knows this. Actions speak loud, and Castiel has given up Heaven for Dean. He's died for him. Lived for him. Invited him into the bed he shares with his demon. "I adore you, Dean," Castiel says, dutifully.

"Good boy." Murmured, from Crowley, not Dean. Dean is silent. Gazing at him with big, wet eyes. It's strangely intense, in colour and emotion, his soul clutching, inarticulate and dumb.

Crowley sounds tired. Sated, but weary, worn out. It makes Castiel want to be good to him, to treasure him. He trails fingers through Crowley's hair. "What can we do for you? What would you like? Anything, anything you like."

Another quiet, drained chuckle. Satisfied as a pampered pet. "We, darling? Are you sure you speak for all parties involved?"

"Yes," Castiel says, with the surety that comes from being able to taste Dean's willingness in the air. "Let us take care of you." Crowley has given him this. Given him Dean. Castiel is grateful, wants to surround Crowley in his gratitude.

"I rather believe you already did." Crowley's smile is crooked, self-assured. But something in the feel of him softens. These things that give him a different flavour of pleasure: praise... _care_.

**Author's Note:**

> Smaychel wrote Castiel. TheFierceBeast wrote Crowley. We both had a go at writing Dean because neither of us are great at him and he just wasn't cooperating. We really hope you enjoyed this anyway and would love it if you leave a little comment if you did!


End file.
